In my dream we push through the shoulder high snow, looking for a place to sleep in the village.

In my dream I am unpacking some boxes from storage, with files of clippings and books. And then I get to compliment a woman on her perfectly made hat, a green felt number that combines a cloche and a fedora.

In my dream Dirk Bogart has posed for the ultimate English pin-up : pallid, scrawny and embarrassed. Later I’m pissing blood.

In my dream I tell the German monk in my video game “I’m not interested in dealing with dragons now”. Seconds later, a spherical clown pops between the claws of the black dragon wrapped around the Manhattan bridge and bounces down two silk platforms.

In my dream I want to add more pieces to my evaluations, even though only the initial group counts. I align their edges.

In my dream the steam ship has a wooden laundry platform.

In my dream I wipe down the square as we head for the exit.

In my dream cops in suits search the yard a bit.

In my dream the next room has a pile of discarded vintage signs from the surrounding offices and facades. I scoop them up.

In my dream I want to travel west for an additional few days, even though I have no place to stay: the tall, staggered streets are like a canyon, and I have the idea to fill them with paintings on wires.

In my dream the plaza is smooth, the air thick.